children although they doated upon them, and she sneered at their utter inconsistency.  Wickedness or goodness, unless coupled with strength, were alike worthless to her.  That weakness which is the blessed pledge of our humanity, was to her only the despicable badge of our imperfection.  She thought, it might be, of her master’s words, “Fallen Cherub! to be weak is to be miserable!” and wondered how we could be such fools as first to sin and then to be sorry.  Becky’s light was defective, but she acted up to it.  Her goodness goes as far as good temper, and her principles as far as shrewd sense, and we may thank her consistency for showing us what they are both worth.

It is another thing to pretend to settle whether such a character be prima facie impossible, though devotion to the better sex might well demand the assertion.  There are mysteries of iniquity, under the semblance of man and woman, read of in history, or met with in the unchronicled sufferings of private life, which would almost make us believe that the powers of Darkness occasionally made use of this earth for a Foundling Hospital, and sent their imps to us, already provided with a return-ticket.  We shall not decide on the lawfulness or otherwise of any attempt to depict such importations; we can only rest perfectly satisfied that, granting the author’s premises, it is impossible to imagine them carried out with more felicitous skill and more exquisite consistency than in the heroine of “Vanity Fair.”  At all events, the infernal regions have no reason to be ashamed of little Becky, nor the ladies either:  she has, at least, all the cleverness of the sex.

The great charm, therefore, and comfort of Becky is, that we may study her without any compunctions.  The misery of this life is not the evil that we see, but the good and the evil which are so inextricably twisted together.  It is that perpetual memento ever meeting one—­

  How in this vile world below
  Noblest things find vilest using,

that is so very distressing to those who have hearts as well as eyes.  But Becky relieves them of all this pain—­at least in her own person.  Pity would be thrown away upon one who has not heart enough for it to ache even for herself.  Becky is perfectly happy, as all must be who excel in what they love best.  Her life is one exertion of successful power.  Shame never visits her, for “’Tis conscience that makes cowards of us all”—­and she has none.  She realizes that ne plus ultra of sublunary comfort which it was reserved for a Frenchman to define—­the blessed combination of "le bon estomac et le mauvais coeur":  for Becky adds to her other good qualities that of an excellent digestion.